


Turn That Coat

by Solrika



Series: Blackwatch Boys [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Deadlock McCree, Gen, Pre-Recall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:12:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8242478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solrika/pseuds/Solrika
Summary: How Jesse joins Blackwatch. Or, rather, how Blackwatch acquires McCree.





	

Jesse wakes up to the crack of gunshots. He’s groping for his pistol before he’s fully awake, tumbling out of his bedroll to peer out the tent into the night. Muzzle flashes illuminate dark figures slipping into the Deadlock camp, sprawled bodies on the ground, Deadlock members fighting and fleeing in equal numbers. He clenches his pistol in clammy hands, lurches out to try and make some sense of it.

Jesse makes it a yard from his tent before he slips, going to his knees in a puddle of what can only be blood. Old Bobby’s eyes stare up at him, sightless and unseeing. Jesse shudders, looks away, tries to find the calm between heartbeats. The gunshots are still echoing, but all he can hear from the enemy are whispers—their weapons are soundless, almost as quiet as the way they move through the camp. He wants to believe that they’re just another rival gang. Someone screams, and Jesse swallows hard and makes himself move again. 

 

They’d made camp in a dead-end canyon. It was supposed to be secure—give them something solid to put their backs to, give them a one-way-in that was easy to guard. Now there’s movement on the walls and enemies rushing in from every side, and it’s turned into a trap. 

 

Jesse can’t get a bead on any of the hostiles—they’re moving too fast, too quiet, and the hollering of the Deadlocks makes his aim go wide and shaky. It’s like something out of a nightmare, like the old ghost stories his mama used to tell him. Jesse backs himself up to the relative safety of his tent with some vague idea of hiding until it goes quiet, and tries not to remember the way that old bruja had cursed them all when Saul had raided her homestead.

 

“The only good witch is a dead witch,” Saul had said, shooting her clean between the eyes, and all Jesse could think was, _Only thing worse than a bruja is a_ dead _bruja_. 

 

He trips over something right as he’s about to scramble back into the tent, and there’s Saul himself, gasping out some last breaths into the dirt. A whimper catches itself in Jesse’s throat, and then the darkness itself is moving, a shape resolving itself and stepping over Saul’s body. It’s just slow enough for Jesse to think, _La lechuza’s comin’ for my soul_ before something cracks across his face and everything goes silent.

 

He wakes up in a dull, dingy room, smells the must and the rot and his own sweat before he cracks open his eyes. When he tilts himself upright, his arms catch behind him—cuffed together from the feel of it. Everything is grey cinderblock in the light of the single bulb, and he’s sitting on a foam pad in the middle of the concrete floor. 

 

Jesse shivers, glancing behind him, in front—for now, he’s alone, assuming there’s no one on the other side of that mirror. He tries not to be the superstitious sort, but part of him can’t think that this is limbo, that he’s gonna be stuck here for the rest of eternity. Not bad enough for Hell, at least, but certainly not good enough for Heaven. 

 

His worries are cut short by the door creaking open. It’s not an angel or demon that steps through, but a short, compact woman with bored eyes. “English or español?” she asks.

 

Jesse swallows. Maybe not limbo. Maybe something worse. “English,” he croaks.

 

She reads him his Miranda rights in a voice as bored as her eyes. Jesse watches her the whole time, trying to place the black fatigues and armor and reconcile it with all the law uniforms he’s ever seen. He comes up blank, and when she’s done he demands, “Who th’ hell are ya, anyways? Yer sure as hell not government.” 

 

The woman blinks down at him, face serene. “You’re in the custody of Blackwatch.” Taps the skull patch on her shoulder, and then turns on her heel and leaves. 

 

Jesse blinks at the abruptness of it, and then sighs, flopping himself over onto the foam mat. He tries, again, to find the calm between heartbeats. It slips away from him, leaving worry in its wake. Only seventeen and already caught by a paramilitary organization. _Fuck. Mama’s gonna kill me if I ever see her again._ He shudders, tries to stop it. “C’mon, McCree,” he orders himself, clenching his fists. “Think.” 

 

He’s seventeen. Might get out with just… juvie. And he’s a citizen, like Mama’s always telling him, so he’s got rights, he can’t be deported—like—her—

 

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” and his voice cracks on the last word, panic sending him upright again, hands clammy without a gun to steady them. At that moment, he wishes he could take it all back—running off, joining Deadlock, even that blood money he sent home every month because Mama, what’ll happen to his _Mama_ —

 

He’s damned them both.

 

He sits there for longer than he can figure, until his shoulders are aching and his mouth is starting to go dry, trying to figure a way out of this mess. There’s nothing he can offer this Blackwatch unless he betrays the Deadlocks, and there’s no way a measly witness protection service can save him then. But to save his Mama from deportation… to make sure she stays safe… 

 

The door finally cracks open, startling Jesse upright.

 

A man enters the room, casually tosses a dossier to the floor in front of him.Jesse’s heart sinks when he sees his mother’s name listed under his, with a little _undocumented immigrant_ beside it. 

 

The agent looks Jesse over, something almost like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve landed yourself in a whole pile of shit, haven’t you, McCree? Lotta trouble to go through for just a few kicks.” There’s a familiarity to his tone that’s almost friendly. It’s like looking at a big, scarred junkyard dog with its tail wagging–it ain’t right.

 

“Shut up,” Jesse growls out, trying to match the big man for coiled menace. His voice cracks pitifully in the middle. It is, in a word, pathetic. He continues anyway, “You don’t know nothin’ ‘bout me!” 

 

The agent huffs out something that might be a laugh. “You’re seventeen, you’re a crack shot, you send postcards and money home to you mother every month. And if you don’t have something for us, you’re going to jail, chico.” Jesse growls again, and the man just chuckles, looks down at him like he’s something small and amusing. “You gonna talk?” 

 

Jesse does his best to straighten his spine, ignore his aching arms. “What’ve you got to give me?”

 

“Depends on what you have. Best case, you get a job offer with us and protection from the law,” the man says, and ain’t that a trip. “Reduced pay, but if you do well, eventually full benefits.” 

 

It’s tantalizing. It’s too good to be true. It’s… Jesse squints at the big man. He feels like he’s being played somehow. But if they want him to talk–fine, he’ll talk. He’ll just do it on his own damn terms. “I can send half these guys to prison on murder charges, but I don’t care about the fuckin’ job. You get my mama her citizenship papers, you put her in witness protection, and you show me the fuckin’ _proof_ ,” he snaps. “Or no deal.” 

 

The agent eyes him, considering. And then something shifts in him–the junkyard dog’s still wagging, but it’s turned genuine somehow. There’s a little crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiles. “Deal.” 

 

Jesse stares at him. “Just like that?”

 

“Just like that.” The agent grins, slow and lazy, tips an imaginary hat to Jesse. “Be seeing you, kid.”   



End file.
